


namesake

by Dean (pretentioys)



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29057142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretentioys/pseuds/Dean
Summary: An exploration of the many names Detective Iona Gray held throughout life, given and chosen, and the people who inspired them. (Alternate description: Iona works through some of their emotional issues)
Kudos: 4





	namesake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead and a deadname.

Rook Langford died far too young, barely living into his thirties. By that point, he had quickly climbed ranks within the force, becoming Wayhaven’s lead detective at twenty-seven. Rook's ten years spent in service to the community amounted to a large absence upon his death. The late detective was survived by his colleagues, friends, and family, including a wife and child.

Of course, Rook was missed as a pillar of the Wayhaven community, but more deeply so by his living relatives. To carry on and pick up the pieces after his untimely, violent death seemed to be an impossible task. To remember Rook as he was, even more difficult.

The half-empty family albums, forgotten love notes tucked inside of books, and a lifetime of dodged questions revealed enough about how well Rebecca coped with her husband’s death. She had always been a stoic person, but Rook’s passing likely affected her more than she let on. Rebecca Langford was a steel trap, baited and set to hurt - she posed a serious risk to anyone foolish enough to ask about Rook directly. No amount of deduction or cross examination of Rebecca could reveal a complete picture of their relationship or who Rook had been. At least not who he was outside of his career and outside what the people of Wayhaven remembered him as.

With that, the only child of Rook Langford had precious few memories of their own father. Despite carrying his name for a good period of their life, they didn’t know much about Rook. What little they knew about him was gleaned from the stories shared between family friends, at dinner parties or community events, and the rarer, dangerous glimpses that Rebecca spared. And later on, they gained access to old case files upon joining the police force, and more still, when they joined the Agency.

How they lived in the shadow of Rook's life, bearing his name and following in his footsteps, was not lost on the detective. Still, it just meant another lead in their search into Rook, another chance to learn the truth about him.

This is what the detective knew, as fact: Rook had been brilliant, with a head for abstraction. Perhaps that’s how he came to enjoy chess so much. He was able to recognize patterns in behavior and deduct the likeliest outcome, Rook Langford was one of the top profilers in the region. He had an outstanding record of service for it. Presumably, that's what landed him on the Agency's radar in the first place. And from there, how he met Rebecca. He was handsome, if a bit hotheaded, and they worked well together. They were married within a couple years. Beyond that and a few other things, the detective didn’t know much about Rook as a person.

With how the Agency operated from the shadows, gathering any information about Rook’s work with them was hard, akin to pulling teeth. What was on file in the Agency database went as such: Rook had been a handler, headed his own team of agents, and received a variety of commendations for his work on behalf of supernaturals. That was all. Any other relevant information about Rook had long since been expunged from his file.

For the detective, it was infuriating, to say the least. To uncover another angle Rook’s past and still come up with nothing - a break in the case only leading to another deadend. There were only more questions and even less than satisfying answers. The red tape, the redacted files, and the tight-lipped guilt Rebecca still carried as a memento only challenged the detective’s peace of mind. Since joining the Agency, the detective wasn't sleeping much - between the doubled workload, the nightmares about Murphy, and their investigation into their dad. Still, the detective was driven to know more.

Back to the facts, Rook was known for his kindness. Putting the people first, Rook worked tirelessly to improve Wayhaven and listened to every complaint, on and off the clock. And on the weekends, Rook would go out to the local bar for a drink or the city park to play chess. On a dime, Rook would just as soon help a stranger fix a flat tire as he would to play a pick-up soccer game with the neighborhood kids. It seemed almost farcical how selfless people made him out to be. His Agency files only reiterated much of the same, he was warm, giving, and a people person.

The detective already knew all that, they’d heard the “Rook loved you so much” and equivalent lines all their life. They were burdened with empty promises of being a wanted child, sworn up and to that they had been cared for, and received the standard pitying, such-a-shame glances from the people they knew. It weighed heavily on them, being unable to strip truth from the fiction.

Everyone spoke well of the dead, how could they know who Rook Langford was, truly?

What ate at them the most was how little they could recall about him, personally. It was hard even to recollect his face, only the one in photographs surfaced - one with Rook in uniform, police cap tucked under his arm, a toothy smile spread out over his features, fresh out of the academy at twenty. A framed wedding photo of Rook and Rebecca, young and in love, the 80s permeating from their hair and clothing. If it weren't for her eyes, the detective might not have recognized their own mom, with the warmth radiated from her smile. There was another photograph with Rook positioned on his back, asleep on the floor, clutching his baby close to his chest - the content exhaustion of a new parent at twenty-five.

Looking at the photos caused a whirl of emotions in them, grief staying at the forefront. His face was only knowable through still image, iconography and mythology dwarfed Rook as a person. It all felt artificial, a facsimile of something genuine. The detective couldn't know his actual face, in complete color and motion - with laughter, in worried grief, or in punitive frustration.

How could they miss him this much? They didn't even know him. What they did know of him was brief, incomplete, or thoroughly satisfying.

Their strongest association with Rook was from childhood, remembering how comfortable it was to be in his arms. They couldn’t have been older than four at the time, enveloped in the warmth of his frame, perched in his lap as the pair hunkered over a book of fairy tales. In an unfamiliar voice, Rook whispered in their ear, reading and sounding out words for them. Decades later, the plot of the stories elude them, but the artwork was burned into their memory.

The fantastical filled up every page: wolves, giants, fairies, and cruel mothers. Illustrations of another world lovingly rendered in ink and watercolor by the artist. The depth of detail more than made up for their muted colors. With every crisp turn of the page, there was a new wondrous thing to see. As a child, they would palm over the images, seeking texture to match as if one could reach out and feel the gossamer of a fairy’s wings or the stiff bristle of wolf fur. As it is with childhood, imagination proved more vivid than memory. Their dad's solid, warm embrace was just as imaginary to me. As if he belonged to that other world, fit more for vampires, ghosts, and fantasy. How horrifyingly ironic that the vampires turned out to be real.

When they were older, the detective had rummaged through the attic, searching for that particular book of fairytales from their memory. As if holding it again would reignite old sensations of older memories, the last ingredient needed in a ritual to know their dad. As they went through every box, they would work themselves into collapse. This happened every couple of years. They’d make their pilgrimage up the creaky stairs, to find the dust resettled over every surface. Once again, they would rifle through the same boxes, methodical and determined to not to overlook anything this time. They were quiet and efficient, careful not to alert Rebecca or the nanny to their actions. As if it would stop them, they had been banned from the attic, although only made the searching more important to them.

Why else did their mom act so suspicious? What did she have to hide? Why did she look so betrayed whenever they asked about Rook? In retrospect, the detective knew it was hard for Rebecca to remember. Maybe for her, hiding everything seemed to be easier, the path of least resistance. They guessed Rebecca had long since removed any incriminating evidence about Rook, his role in her life, or the existence of supernaturals from that attic and the house. And, yeah, an attic was dangerous for a child to be alone in.

In the end, the reasons didn't matter. They never did find the original book.

Eventually, the detective just stopped searching for it, between the perceived rejection from Rebecca and their transition into adulthood - it all felt silly and pointless.

Much as now, their search into Rook’s life felt childish. Still here they were, hunkered over their desk, pouring over the same old case files as if there was still something they missed, overlooked. It was a desperate exercise in futility, searching for some closure or a revelation, or something else entirely.

The detective wasn't sure about anything anymore. The world was a lot bigger, scarier, and more unpredictable than the one they knew as a child. Things relegated to children's fantasy were a reality and could render the detective absolutely powerless. They couldn't even feel vindicated knowing that their mom had lied to them. No, Iona never felt more small, mortal, and unsure.

Of course, Rook was still the disembodiment of fatherhood, the wanting of affection, and an endless amount of what-could-have-beens. That, at least, was familiar to them - Iona could take some comfort in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is extraordinarymage. feedback is appreciated as always!


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